


Something Unexpected

by imaginary_writer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!Lestrade, Doctor!John to the rescue!, Gen, Lestrade got hurt, and it's Sherlock's fault, did I mention Sherlock was actually nice?, most of it anyway, so everything's gonna be fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_writer/pseuds/imaginary_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strangely, nothing really happened according to plan whenever Sherlock was involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> writing for this prompt: http://dilestrade.livejournal.com/48796.html?thread=134044#t134044
> 
> Okay, so it didn't exactly follow the prompt to the tee... I swear I had it all figured out, then it had a mind of its own and start keyboard smashing itself.
> 
> Un-beta-d and un-Brit-picked. So all faults is no one but my own. Please notify me if you see any. Also, any criticism is always welcome.
> 
> I don't own the characters, just an amateur playing with words. No profit comes from this work, /obviously/.

“Sherlock?”

Lestrade’s calling was met with dead silence of 221 Baker Street as he peered inside, his eyes roaming the small hallway and up to the stairs where his consulting detective resided. He had been knocking for quite some times before he decided to use the spare key Sherlock had gave him before he moved in to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson did tell him she was visiting her relatives outside of London and won’t be back until tomorrow. He didn’t know where the good doctor was, but if he wasn’t there to answer the door, then he must be at his work, or trying to avoid a brooding mad genius. So either nobody was at home, or Sherlock was too lazy to answer the door and decided to ignore him. Again. _To think_ , he thought bitterly as he ascended the stairs two at a time, clutching the case file tighter under his arm, _I came around bringing him a case because he keeps texting me he was bored_. Even in his own head, his grumbling sounded exasperatedly fond. God help him.

It wasn’t out of ordinary for him to let himself in since Sherlock gave him the key so that the posh git didn’t have to open the door every time he came by. Not that he would ever do it, mind, since he had Mrs Hudson and John to do it for His Highness (that lazy arse). He just didn’t like using the spare key for his own benefit. Sure, Mrs Hudson sometimes liked to mother him whenever he stopped by with tea and biscuits, sometimes cake or donuts, and he always consider John as a friend of sorts, a comrade to handle one grown-up child that was Sherlock Holmes with the occasional a pint or two at the pub. But he never thought he was actually allowed to breeze through the door as he pleased, even though Sherlock dictated otherwise ( _“I don’t know why you even bother to knock when you already have the key, Lestrade.”)_. Well, Sherlock has the social conscience of a five year old, so his opinion on that didn’t count.

When he arrived at the top of the stairs, he was expecting a stream of insults thrown at him in a bored, baritone voice. But nothing came forward. _Huh_ , he mused, _maybe he isn’t in after all_. Lestrade thought that he might as well wait for him since he didn’t have anything important waiting at the office sans paper works (God, he’d do anything not to do those devilry). If anything comes up, Donovan would call him and until then, maybe he could catch on that long due nap on the couch…

 

Strangely, nothing really happened according to plan whenever Sherlock was involved.

 

“Really, John, it was all so easy if only everyone just pay attention!” Sherlock’s deep, cultured voice filled the narrow hallway, his raven hair in wild disarray as if they have a mind on its own, a remnant of the chase that evening. “I don’t know why the niece even bother to see me about this,” he continued his rambling as he wounded the stairs two at a time, his coat swirling behind him like a cape crusader (no, he didn’t know what that is, so don’t bother asking him) and his hands already tugging his scarf, leaving John to lock the door.

“If the case didn’t merit your attention, why’d you accept it then?” John asked exasperatedly as he closed the door behind him, shaking his head as he rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s back. Truth be told, he thought that the case was pretty easy as well and was surprised that Sherlock took the case. “And we didn’t exactly catch the criminal, now did we?”

“That’s because those idiots let him get away,” Sherlock sneered from upstairs, his body turned just so he could scorn at John. “I could care less about that petty criminal. I’ve solved the puzzle, the Yarders can catch him if they have even the slightest neurons left in their empty heads,” he added, his hands waved in general direction to punctuate his thought. “And I was bored, John! My hard drive needs constant stimulation so that it won’t rot and become _ordinary_.” John could see Sherlock was faking a shiver to emphasise his words.

Sherlock Holmes, an admirer for dramatics. No surprise there.

“And God forbid that you become ordinary-,” the words slowly died out from John’s mouth as he reached the top, almost barrelling into Sherlock, who stood stock still in  front of the door that lead to their shared living room. Wondering what had caused Sherlock to freeze instead of his usual flair for theatrics, John side-stepped, standing beside his best friend while taking in the scene of the room.

It was a right mess. Well, it was always a mess before, but now it was brought to a whole new level. Books were strewn across the room, some of the pages ripped out from it and left haphazardly on every surface available. There were scratches evident on the surface that was not covered by old newspaper clippings or ripped pages, including his sofa. The coffee table didn’t survive the apparent attack; it was broken in half.

“Sorry about the mess.” John’s head snapped up to the source of that gravelly voice that he had come to associate with DI Lestrade. And there he was, sitting comfortably in Sherlock chair -a reminisce from their first meeting, one hand fiddling an opened novel while the other had a bag of peas pressed on his already swollen face. He closed the book at hand, putting it aside before looking back at both of the newcomers. His posture seemed relaxed, though it was somewhat tainted with the occasional grunt whenever the DI tried to move. “Your guess and I had a little misunderstanding.” This he looked pointedly at Sherlock, obviously waiting for explanation.

“Jesus, what the Hell happened?” John belted out before Sherlock managed to answer, receiving a haughty glare from said detective which he easily ignored in favour of rushing towards the DI’s side and retracted the bag of peas from his face while his deft fingers danced on Lestrade’s skin, already in the doctor mode. Lestrade, already used to John’s fussing whenever someone got hurt, let the doctor work, seeming too content to let others took care of him for once. Lestrade let out a hiss when John accidentally brushed against quite a sore spot. “Sorry,” John muttered absentmindedly as he continued to catalogue Lestrade’s injury on his torso. “Any dizziness? Blurred vision? Nauseous?”

Lestrade shook his head, but stopped himself when he felt nauseous and his vision started to blur. Bad idea, he chided himself. “Nothing a few painkillers can’t fix. I’d get up and find it if I could, but…” he trailed off, his face turned scarlet underneath his tanned skin.

John patted his knee, smiling understandably. “I’ll get it for you. I’ll get those fixed while I’m at it.” Before Lestrade granted any answers, John already disappeared to his room upstairs. So he was left with Sherlock, who seemed to be content to check on whatever he had under the microscope. Then he prattled around the kitchen, making unnecessary noises that made Lestrade’s head hurt. He let out a groan, already pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

His senses was invaded by the smell of black tea, shoved unceremoniously to his peripheral vision, when he followed the trail of the long limb and was met with pale eyes, he wasn’t sure if he was delusional or not. “We’re out of milk,” Sherlock said, his brash tone of voice was unusually soft, almost… Well, if Lestrade had to put it, it almost sounded uncertain. But since he was dealing with Sherlock, he didn’t dare to think it was. God knew he’d throw a fit if anyone ever said he could sound uncertain, or any other emotion that he claimed he didn’t have. Though the people that mattered knew it wasn’t true, Lestrade included.

Sherlock knitted his brows together, cupid lips pursed. He looked younger like that, and vulnerable, making Lestrade’s already pained chest clenched. So he took the preferred mug to break eye contact with the detective, mumbling his thanks. He eyed the mug, suspicious that Sherlock might put something in his tea besides sugar- he wouldn’t put past him. Sherlock never made tea for him in the time he had known the younger man; it was simply never heard of- before taking a tentative sip. He tried to keep the grimace from his face for its sweetness, and if it slipped, he’d blame it on the wounds.

Soon, John’s footfall could be heard as he descended the stairs with his medical kit in hand, saving Lestrade from finishing the too sweet tea. John stared at the tea, raising a questioning brow to Lestrade before darting his gaze to Sherlock, who managed to attain the case file in the midst of the whole mess and was now littered the floor with ballistic reports and gruesome pictures, then settled back at the inspector. Lestrade could only shrug in respond, though his face was fond if it wasn’t so battered with injuries. John shook his head, careful to navigate himself around the floor and reached Lestrade. “So,” he started conversationally as he opened his bag and starting to fuss over Lestrade once again. “wanna tell me what happened?”

There was a snort coming from Sherlock, who had his eyes scanning the pictures so fast, taking in everything that others couldn’t see. “Obviously he got it when he was fending off the assailant,” he waved at the direction of the figure in black on the floor next to Lestrade, bounded and gagged, and unmoving. “It was the man from the case earlier. Apparently he was waiting for us to get back here so that he could give me a piece of his mind, but Lestrade beat us to it. Well done, Lestrade. Looks like there is a future for New Scotland Yard yet.”

John rolled his eyes in annoyance at his flatmate’s brashness and gave Lestrade a sympathetic smile, as he felt the tensed muscle around Lestrade’s jaw as he continued to work. “Is he dead?” he jerked his head towards the prone figure. He really didn’t want to deal dead bodies anymore today. What he needed was a nice long hot shower and Chinese takeaway and hopefully, he could get some sleep tonight without waking up to Sherlcok abusing the violin.

“Last time I checked, he was still breathing,” Lestrade answered, and then kicked the man in the sheen, earning a loud groan that filled the entire room. “Yep, still alive.”

“Right,” John said, packing away his tools once he was done treating most of Lestrade wounds. “Nothing’s broken, so that’s a plus. Just gotta wait for the bruise to heal.” He disappeared into the kitchen before going out once again and handed Lestrade an ice pack. “We’re going to order Chinese. I’ll give you the painkillers once you’re fed. Doctor’s order,” he said in his most authoritative voice before Lestrade could protest. “I bet you haven’t eaten anything since morning.”

“He missed his dinner last night,” Sherlock chipped in, eyes still glued to the case file. Lestrade tried to glare at him with his good eye, but it was no use. When he looked back at John, he just knew he was never going back to his office tonight, or tomorrow if John could have his way.

“Fine,” he said, shoulders sagging dejectedly. “Let me call the Yard to pick him up,” and was on his feet, swaying a little, his phone already near his ear. “Donovan, you still at the Yard? Yeah, listen…” the rest of the conversation when Lestrade used the kitchen as a temporary office.

“You should order curry tonight,” Sherlock quipped in and John snapped his attention to the consulting detective as he busied himself trying to bring order to the chaos. “Lestrade’s favourite when he’s feeling…” he stopped, a frown etched between his brows. “peaky. There’s an Indian place around the corner that does delivery. The phone number should be in your phone. I took the liberty to programme it for you.”

There was a beat of silence descended upon the room, to which Sherlock refused to meet John’s gaze and continued to busy himself, or rather, making himself look busy. “Right,” John finally said and continued with his earlier plan; order takeaway then take a nice hot shower. He had to quash the urge to smile proudly until he had put a safe distance between him and Sherlock.

Later, his stomach was full with curry takeaway and he sitting comfortably in front of telly, with John dozing off beside him, using his good shoulder as a pillow and Sherlock disappearing into his bedroom after dinner, Lestrade thought that kind of liked it, this weird domesticaty the tenants of 221B offered.

 _Maybe I should use the spare key more often_ , he mused as he nursed his beer, his hand unconsciously patted his pocket.


End file.
